


Strawberry

by genevievedarcygranger



Series: Negan/Rick fics [14]
Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms, The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Domesticity, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Infatuated Besotted Negan, Jailbird Negan, M/M, Old Man Rick, Romance, prison Negan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 03:20:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15209762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genevievedarcygranger/pseuds/genevievedarcygranger
Summary: Rick decides to give Judith a proper birthday party. He’s got balloons. He’s got presents. Now all he needs is a cake; and he knows just the guy to bake it.





	Strawberry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marium/gifts), [Hatterized](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hatterized/gifts).



Rick was still in his robe – something that never happened since he had gotten into the habit of being up before the sun so he could work a little in the garden before it got too hot for him. In his pajamas with his robe wrapped loosely around his waist, he added a little milk to the eggs as he made his and Judith’s breakfast. It felt so normal. To have eggs. To have enough food for a typical breakfast. To have bread in the toaster and apple juice in Judith’s small pink cup with faded puppy dog faces on the sides. To have time to make his daughter breakfast before he walked her to school. He was enjoying the quiet of the morning while Judith was still too drowsy to ask a million questions when she started early with her first question of the day.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, Judy?” Rick scooped the scrambled eggs on the three plates he had sitting out, and then he started cutting the tops off of the strawberries, Judith’s favorite fruit.

“How old am I?”

Glancing up sharply, Rick nearly sliced open his palm. He quickly set the knife aside and placed his palms flat on the countertop, looking over it at where Judith sat waiting for her breakfast at the kitchen table. She was so tall now, springing up like a weed and just as thin – from growth spurts, though, rather than lack of food, thankfully. Her hair was still blond and curly, yet to fade to brown like Rick’s did when he was little. And she was still in her pajamas, too, her favorite stuffed animal propped up in the chair next to hers. She was fiddling with Mr. Sunshine’s paw, trying to keep him upright, and Rick took that moment to consider.

“Why do you ask, Judy?”

Inelegantly, she shrugged and finally looked up at him with sleepy eyes. “Mrs. Corin was talking about it the other day. We have times like spring, summer, fall, and winter. We used to have holidays, too. Like the festival we’re gonna have with the owl.” She picked up her cup and took a sip of the apple juice. “She said she was around fifty-years-old. How old are you, Daddy?”

It took Rick a moment to think about it. He was thirty-five before his coma. His body certainly hadn’t felt like that for a while, though. Carl was just finishing the fifth grade, and he was eleven. Rick’s eyes slipped shut. Carl would’ve been driving by now – with a license – if the world hadn’t fallen apart. If he hadn’t –

“I guess I’m forty-years-old, Judy.”

“That’s old.”

“Yeah, it is.”

She took another sip of her apple juice, and the toast popped out of the toaster as it dinged. Rick picked one slice with nimble fingers and tossed it on her plate along with the strawberries he had cut. One the other plate, he tossed the other slice of toast and more strawberries. Taking his time, he put two more slices of bread in the toaster, changing the timer from two minutes to four so that it would be a little darker. He had just limped over to the refrigerator, his leg at its stiffest in the morning, to get the butter and peach preserves for the toast when Judith asked him again, “So how old does that make me, Daddy?”

Shame flooded through Rick’s gut as he couldn’t even give a definite date for his daughter’s birthday. Rick had always been good with remembering the important days. Lori’s birthday was April 14th. Their anniversary was June 25th. It was a Tuesday. Carl was born January 27th. Hell, he even remembered Jeffrey’s birthday being February 13th because sometimes it would fall on a Friday. But for his own daughter, all he remembered was the high stress and the grief and the anger in his hard heart.

“You’re five-years-old, Judy.” Rick finished buttering her toast and spreading the peach preserves on the other slice. Grabbing his cane, he held her plate in the other and hobble towards the table. Once he set the plate in front of her, she immediately dug in. “But I think you’re about to have a birthday coming up soon.”

Butter smeared on her top lip and egg clinging to her chin, Judith’s eyes went wide. “Really?”

“Yup.” Rick went back for the other plate so he could eat his breakfast, too. The third plate innocuously sat there with its eggs and strawberries, waiting for the other two pieces of toast. “You know what that’ll make you?”

“I’ll be six!” She held up her fingers, beaming at Rick. “Does this mean I get a party, Daddy? And presents?”

Wiping Judith’s mouth, Rick murmured, “Did Mrs. Corin tell you about that, too?”

“Uh huh. She also told us that we get a cake all to ourselves. And it has candles on it. I would have six candles.”

“That’s exactly right, Judy. So, do you want a party?”

“Please, Daddy, can I?”

“Then we’ll have one. It’ll be a week from tomorrow?”

“That’s like a million days!” Judith huffed dramatically and flopped back in her chair, tossing a look at Mr. Sunshine as if she were looking for camaraderie.

“That’s eight days, Judy. Don’t you worry about it. I’ll handle everything. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” He winked at her, and Judith giggled happily around her mouthful of eggs. “Finish up your breakfast so you can get ready for school. You need to tell all your friends.” Rick took a bite of his strawberry and smiled around it. In the background, the toaster dinged.

* * *

 

“Birthday candles? Balloons? What you got ‘em on the list for?” Daryl grunted, looking over the slip of paper Rick passed to him at the gate. He impatiently shifted his weight from foot to foot and narrowed his eyes at Rick.

“Judith asked me this morning about her birthday. We’ve never done anything to celebrate it,” Rick explained.

"So?” Daryl mumbled around his fingernails. He had his arms crossed defensively, but really, he was just confused. He had never had a birthday party. He didn’t see the point.

Throat-closing up on him, Rick muttered thickly, trying to reign in his emotions, “C-Carl’s letter, the one he wrote me. He talked about how we could have a better world. One of the things he mentioned was birthday parties. I want to do this for her.”

Daryl looked at the list again, avoiding Rick’s eyes. “She was born in the fall. It’s summer.”

“Please, Daryl. Just see what you can find. Her party will be next week on Saturday. You’re invited.”

“Mm.” Daryl stuffed the list in his pocket and shifted his weight again. “I gotta get her a present.”

“You do.”

“Mm.”

“There will be cake,” Rick wheedled.

“You the one makin’ it?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.” Daryl pulled the gate open for his motorcycle. “I don’t want no burnt cake.”

“It won’t be burnt!” Rick defended himself, moving out of the way for Daryl and his run crew’s wagon. “It’ll be strawberry.”

“Sure.” Daryl left with a roar of his motorcycle and a gallop of hooves tossing up dirt in his wake. Rick had the gatekeeper close the gate while he went back home. How hard could it be to make a cake?

* * *

 

Making a cake was really hard. Rick had never made anything beyond a box cake, and he had been practicing for the last three days to make something that resembled a cake. The first one was burnt, and Rick immediately took it out to the pigs to hide the evidence from Daryl. The second one was raw, and when Rick put it back in the oven, he burned that one, too. He was beginning to lose hope when his third cake was more like a loaf; and he hadn’t even attempted to make any sort of semblance to a frosting yet. At his wit’s end, Rick didn’t know what to do. He thought he had gotten better with cooking since he’s learned to make do with the simple ingredients he has. Baking, though, was completely out of his range of knowledge.

His first thought was that he could ask one of his family or his neighbors for help. Rick’s first option would’ve been Carol and then Michonne, but both women wouldn’t be back until Judith’s birthday since they were on a fishing trip at Oceanside. There was no way he was going to ask Daryl, and he doubted Daryl would be any better off. Rick even swallowed his pride and sent a message out to the Sanctuary to see if Rosita, Tara, or any of Negan’s former wives (now two of them Rosita’s and Tara’s girlfriends) knew anything about baking. They sent back a resounding no. His pride got in the way of him asking any of his neighbors, and Rick also knew that if he sent word to the Hilltop or if he asked Aaron that Daryl would find out. Desperate, Rick turned to the only other person he could think of.

Walking down the stairs with a cane was always a struggle, but having done it three times a day for the past two years every single day, Rick was slowly mastering it. In his other hand, he held a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, slightly burnt toast with peach preservative and butter, and freshly cut strawberries. Once he reached the bottom step without falling or dropping anything, he breathed a small sigh of relief and turned to the cell. “Good mornin’, Negan.”

Sitting at attention on his freshly made bed, Negan smiled at him. “Morning, Rick. You look good today, as fucking always. Must be that cute little ponytail.”

Huffing slightly through his nose, Rick slowly made his way to the cell. “You sleep good?”

 “As much as I fucking can on a goddamn brick. And y’know, by myself. With no one to cuddle.” Negan drawled, and Rick was sure that by now he knew that Negan was only half teasing. He knew it had to be lonely for a guy like Negan here. No one came to visit him except for Rick every day, and once a week whoever Rick roped into helping him with Negan’s bathtub. Rick tried to be fair, to not mistreat him or punish him anymore than he already had, so he tried to spend as much time down here as he could. Since he started using a cane, he wasn’t able to do much anymore outside the walls, so he spent more than a few meals down her in Negan’s company. After so much time, he found he didn’t mind it so much, and that Negan actually gave good advice. Unwarranted advice and sometimes vastly inappropriate advice, but advice all the same. More often than not, Rick took it. And now as he watched Negan eat his breakfast and ramble on about some weird dream he had, Rick was considering asking for his advice again.

"Can you make anythin’ other than spaghetti?”

Pausing, Negan studied Rick’s expression for a moment before he smoothly replied, “Fuck yes.”

Dragging out his chair on the other side of the bars, Rick plopped down heavily, stretching out his bad leg for relief. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Well, it depends on what you’re fucking asking for Rick. I fucking love Italian food. Pizza, pasta, you fucking name it. Cannolis! It’s goddamn comfort food for me. A southern belle like you, Rick, a fucking Georgia Peach, I bet you like porkchops and turnip greens. I can make that, too, if you like.”

“What about desserts?” Rick studied his cane. “Besides cannolis.”

Negan whistled sharply. “Pumpkin pie is my specialty, but I can make pretty much fucking anything. Fuck, Lucille used to love my cookies made from scratch –” He cut himself off quickly, chin dropping to his sternum as he stared at his plate.

Knowing better than to ask or to push, Rick gently asked after giving Negan some time, “What about a cake?”

“Sure,” Negan’s voice was a little subdued, a little quiet. “I can do that. Any kind of cake you want, Rick.” Finally, he looked up, and if his eyes were a little wet, Rick didn’t say anything. “Anything else, Rick?”

“You mentioned somethin’ about pizza?”

Rick didn’t know it was possible for Negan to smile even brighter.

* * *

 

The day of Judith’s party, Rick had trouble sending her off to school because she was so excited, but as soon as he dropped her off, he limped as fast as he could to Negan’s cell. They both came to the conclusion fairly quickly that Negan just writing down the recipe and instructions for Rick wouldn’t be enough, so Rick was taking the chance to bring Negan into his home for this. Thankfully, it would be just the two of them, and by now Rick figured he could trust Negan enough to not run away.

Smuggling Negan into his house was a little nerve-wracking for Rick as he gave Negan normal clothes and made sure to lead him down the most deserted streets. It helped that most of the people who did see them from a distant couldn’t recognize Negan with his beard. Negan for his part didn’t draw attention to himself, mostly just inhaling deep lungfuls of fresh, summer air.

“It smells like dirt and fresh cut grass and fucking flowers, Rick. It’s amazing.”

Once they were at his house, Rick laid out all the ingredients for Negan. “Now, I think you should make it a strawberry cake since she loves strawberries. Feel free to do what you like for the pizza, she’s not picky. You have a couple hours, probably five at the most, before I have to take you back and pick up Judith from school. She’s gonna have friends over and some of our family later.”

“I get it, I fucking get it,” Negan muttered while he suspiciously sniffed the milk. “I’m not invited to the fucking party. I’m just the caterer.”

Rick patted Negan between the shoulder blades, and then left him to it as he decorated his living room for the party. While he listened to Negan bang around and curse to himself, Rick blew up balloons, strung up pink banners, and even set out some glitter and confetti on the floor that he knew he would be finding for months afterwards. Ever now and then he popped his head into the kitchen to check on Negan, but mostly he was working double time to make sure everything was perfect for his little girl.

He was just wrapping Judith’s present for the third time to get it neat and pretty when the most delicious aroma started drifting from the kitchen. Gathering up Judith’s present and the wrapping paper, Rick shuffled into the kitchen and carefully dumped them on the kitchen table. “Smells good in here,” he commented in greeting.

“That would be the fucking pizza. It’s a vegetable pizza mainly. Lots of fucking peppers. I’m working on the frosting right now so it has time to set up in the fridge,” Negan explained.

Sitting at the table, Rick watched Negan and had never seen the man more at home. Like a domesticated cat, really. Rick just had to make sure to change out the litterbox so he wouldn’t scratch up the furniture. “You used to be a chef?”

“Nope!” Negan looked up from his mixing bowl with a wicked smile. “Basketball coach. But me and – I always thought of opening up a little restaurant. Never had the money for it on a teacher’s salary. Go fucking figure.” Negan shrugged and whisked a little harder, the metal scraping the side of the glass bowl. “I even had to get an extra job on the side to make ends meet. Used car salesman.”

“I can definitely see that more than being a coach.” Rick turned back his wrapping. “I don’t see how you weren’t fired considering how you talk.”

“They fucking tried to, believe me, but the kids loved me too much for that. It helped that I’d have them over to play ping-pong in my garage. Gave them lemonade and cookies from scratch and healthy snacks and shit. Kept them out of trouble, too, so the parents appreciated that at least. Hell, if another fucking life I could’ve taught Carl in high school.”

Rick’s fingers slowed as he remembered Carl, remembered how much that Carl seemed to like Negan, remembered that Negan was only alive because of Carl. “Yeah,” he said simply, feeling numb, and then busied his hands with the taping the wrapping paper down.

“Rick?” Negan hesitantly asked, his hands paused mid-stir.

“What is it, Negan?”

“I’m...grateful that you let me live. Did I ever tell you that?”

“No.” Rick looked at Negan – really looked at him, and he saw that he was being sincere for once and deadly serious.

“Well, I am. And y’know all that shit I said about…about Carl? How you were a shit dad and all that? I was lying. I knew you weren’t a bad dad, and all this,” Negan swept his arm out, lazily gesturing around the kitchen, “this shit just proves that you’re an awesome dad.” Rick was just about to tear up, when of course Negan had to ruin it. “I wish you could’ve been my fucking dad. I need a strong, positive male role-model in my life, y’know.”

Rick’s sniffle shifted into a laugh. “Shut up, Negan.” They were both smiling when they went back to what they were doing.

They worked in a comfortable quiet, the only sounds the glide of Rick’s scissors against the wrapping paper and the clinks of Negan’s spoon against the side of the bowl as he measured out more ingredients. Of course, Negan could never keep silent for long. He reminded Rick of Judith that way.

“Say, Rick, if I’m making this for Judith’s birthday are you gonna let me do this for everyone’s birthday? I wouldn’t mind that. Consider it fucking, uh, community service. That should shorten my prison sentence, right, Rick?”

“Nice try, Negan.” Rick carefully stood and moved toward the countertop, peeking inside the bowl curiously.

“I’m dead fucking serious, Rick. I swear on my fucking ball sack.” Negan shuffled closer, showing Rick the bowl of icing that was slightly pink from the strawberry bits Negan flaked inside. Once Rick nodded his approval, Negan went back to whisking. “Bet you I could guess your most favorite fucking dessert.”

Shifting his cane, Rick shrugged. “Go ahead.”

Negan’s tongue slid between his lips with impish delight. “Peach cobbler.” His hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, and Rick ducked his head as he chortled.

“Close, actually. I do love a good peach cobbler, but I actually prefer a carrot cake.”

“Fuck! With fucking pecans, I guess.” Negan wrinkled his nose at Rick playfully. “How do you say it? Pee-can or peh-cahn?”

Rolling his eyes, Rick chuffed, “Peh-cahn.”

Negan, who said it the former way, huffed a laugh of his own and bumped his shoulder against Rick’s, the motion carefully done to not knock Rick off-balance with his cane. “I knew it. So, do you like peh-cahns in your carrot cake? I could make it for your birthday one day, if you fucking like. Maybe give you something else for your birthday, too. Tell me, Rick, do you know the tradition of birthday licks?” Negan wiggled his eyebrows, and Rick swatted at his elbow, trying not to blush.

“We’ll see if I can let you out again for other chores, though. So long as you don’t poison any of us with this pizza and cake, I don’t see why we can’t do that.”

“Rick! I’m fucking offended. I wouldn’t dare try to poison you or the little angel.” Negan dipped his finger in the frosting, gathering a generous portion. Shoving it under Rick’s nose, he offered, “Go ahead and taste it then, Rick. Prove yourself wrong.”

Gaze flicking back and forth between the dollop of pink frosting on Negan’s finger and Negan, Rick took a small step back, pushing Negan’s hand away. “Doesn’t it defeat the purpose for me to test it? You try it first.”

“Un-fucking-believable,” Negan muttered under his breath, smile dropping. “Fine.” He sucked off the frosting, swirling his tongue around his fingertip for good measure. “Mm. Now that’s fucking good. Could be sweeter, but I don’t have a lot of sugar and I figure you don’t want a hyped-up bunch of little kids on your hands tonight.” Using that same finger, Negan scooped out more frosting and repeated the motion of shoving it under Rick’s nose. “Now do you wanna try it?”

More to appease Negan than to sate his own curiosity, Rick held Negan’s gaze and licked the frosting off his finger. His eyes went wide at the burst of flavor, sweet at first, but then followed by the tartness of the strawberry. “That’s good.”

Flicking his tongue over his bottom lip, Negan hummed to himself at first. “Yeah,” his voice was husky when he replied, “I’m glad I could fucking make you happy, Rick.”

Neither one was sure who made the first move, but then they were kissing each other, tasting the frosting off of each other’s lips and tongues. The cane was abandoned and it fell to the floor with a clatter neither of them heard. Rick’s arms were around Negan’s neck, fingers buried in his hair, lacing it in a tight grip as he directed him how he liked to keep their noses from crashing together. Negan’s hands started off gripping Rick’s hips before they quested up his back and pressed down on his shoulder blades, keeping the shorter man pressed against him with no room to keep breathing and only room to continue kissing. His fingertips teased with the curly ends of Rick’s ponytail before he tugged the hairband loose and combed his fingers carefully through the messy curls, releasing a low groan of satisfaction into Rick’s mouth as he did it.

The only reason their kiss was cut short was because of a small voice coming from the doorway to the kitchen. “Daddy?”

Ripping himself away from Negan in a panic, Rick nearly fell to the ground without his cane to steady him. Negan caught him by the elbows and quickly fished up the cane before he stepped away from Rick, too, tips of his ears going red.

“Judy!” Rick blustered loudly, “What are you doing home so early, sweetie?”

“Mrs. Corin let us go early for my birthday!” Judith brightly answered at first, but then her words came slower as she critically examined Negan. “The others had to go home to tell their parents, but they’ll come soon. I wanted to see my presents.” Finally, she turned her attention back to her father, “Daddy, who is this?”

“Uh,” Rick floundered for an answer.

“Hey, Jude,” Negan spoke up, and he smiled at Judith.

“Hi,” she greeted him, “why were you kissing my daddy? Does that make you my new mommy?”

Both Rick and Negan shot each other wild-eyed looks as they struggled for an answer. “Um…”

“I’m… I’m the Cake Fairy,” Negan said and then cringed. Rick stayed silent, letting Negan dig the hole for himself. “I met you once when you were just an itty-bitty baby. I made you spaghetti. Do you remember that, angel?”

Judith’s face crinkled in thought. “Was…my brother was there. Carl.”

“You remember Carl?”

“Uh huh. I got a picture of him. He got sick.” Judith wandered further into the kitchen, tossing her faded Dora the Explorer backpack on the kitchen table.

Immediately, Rick’s father instincts kicked in. “Judith, you know that goes in your room.”

“I know, I’m gonna put it there, but I wanna see.” Judith pulled her chair from the table, the legs loudly scraping off the floor, until she had it near the countertop. She climbed on top of her chair and looked over the ingredients Negan had laying out. “What are you makin’?”

“Your cake, angel. I told you I’m the Cake Fairy,” Negan adapted quickly, slipping into his role like it’s a glove. “I come at birthdays.”

“How come I haven’t seen you before? Where have you been?”

“Uh…time-out.”

“You musta done somethin’ bad.”

“Oh, I did,” Negan’s eyes slid towards Rick. “I was uh, not doing my job. I was making…the opposite of birthdays.”

Rather than asking a question about that, Judith snatched one of the strawberries from the counter. “Thank you for making my cake, Cake Fairy. But what do I really call you?”

“Let’s just…stick to Cake Fairy for now. Your daddy can tell you why he was kissing me.” To distract her, Negan quickly asked, “Do you want to learn how to bake a cake, angel? Here, bring your chair around here and I’ll show you.”

* * *

 

Baking with Judith had gone better than both Rick and Negan expected. She had a lot of fun baking with Negan and gave up quickly about asking who he was. It also gave Rick plenty of time to put away the rest of her presents, and nothing miraculously was burned. After Rick sent Judith upstairs to change into her princess dress for the party, he quickly walked Negan back to the cell before any of the other guests could arrive. They didn’t talk about the kiss.

The next morning after Rick walked Judith to school, he went back to his home to pick up Negan’s breakfast. Negan was waiting for him with a smile.

“Good morning, Rick. You got a kiss for me, handsome?”

Blushing, Rick passed Negan his breakfast. “Even better.”

With one last teasing wink at Rick, Negan looked down at his breakfast and nearly cried at the perfect slice of strawberry cake and glass of cold milk. After he finished breakfast, Rick left, the cloying taste of sweet, tart frosting on his tongue and a promise to let Negan out for dinner later.


End file.
